


commit (to the bit)

by elftrash



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, fake dating for world peace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24068374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elftrash/pseuds/elftrash
Summary: Maedhros and Fingon cure the rift in the House of Finwë by fake-dating.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 59
Kudos: 203





	commit (to the bit)

“It’s getting worse,” Maedhros said, voice tight with strain. “I scarcely dare give breath to what I fear, sometimes, in case I bring it into being. Should our fathers come to blows –”

“They would _never_ ,” Fingon said. Then he thought about it. “Well – my father would never.” He thought about it for a moment more. “My father would never _strike first_.”

“If they did, our people would be truly riven apart,” said Maedhros. “Our family, too, I need not say! It's always had a crack in its heart, a flaw in its stone – dearly as I love you, and the other products of my grandfather’s second union of soul and body.”

“Even Turgon?”

“Even Turgon," Maedhros said, and laughed a little. “Every family needs a strait-laced sort, and Eru knows, my own brothers have added very little to the balance of sense and wisdom in the house of Finwë.”

“I would say you have given more to that balance than them all together,” Fingon said. He wanted to touch Maedhros’s beautiful face, to see if he could smooth the strain around his eyes with his fingertips. A strange thought: but it was a crack in his heart itself to see his favourite cousin so ill with concern. “-And that’s not saying much.”

“No, indeed,” Maedhros said. “It’s all I can do to stop them coming to blows themselves. I thought Caranthir was going to hit Angrod the other day.”

Fingon was on the Finarfinian side by default, but he had to admit, “and Angrod was within a moment of throttling him.”

“Over the _salt-grinder._ ”

“To be fair,” Fingon said – he rather hated being fair, but like Maedhros, he was finding himself pushed more and more into the role of peace-weaver these days – “Uncle Finarfin _did_ send him to Alqualondë to meditate with his Telerin grandpa and commune with the swans until he feels calmer.”

There was a moment where they both meditated on the prospect of Angrod returning to Tirion, filled with the wisdom of the swans. It did not noticeably lighten the mood.

“What our fathers need,” said Maedhros, “is something they can agree on.”

“You might as well wish for one of the stars caught in a glass! Not that your father couldn’t do it, but _I_ might as well try and catch one in a dragonfly-net.”

-

“They both love Grandpa Finwë,” said Fingon, and poured them each a glass of wine.

“They both want him to love them _best_ ,” said Maedhros.

“You don’t think that if we put Grandpa Finwë in danger somehow, they would come together to save him?"

“They would find a way to fight each other over it,” Maedhros said, “even in their shared grief.”

-

“They both love Tirion,” Maedhros said, over an almost-empty glass of wine.

“Do they?” said Fingon doubtfully.

 _His_ father loved Tirion. _Maedhros_ ’s father wanted Tirion to love him best, but could not bear to stay long in the city. He spent long-years away from it, travelling, or at Formenos: it seemed he barely was returned to the palace where he’d been born before he was gone again.

That didn’t mean Fëanor didn’t love it, but he couldn’t stand it for long, and how much that was due to the presence of Indis and the absence of Miriel, and how much Fëanor’s own restless spirit, who could say?

“Anyway,” Fingon said, when Maedhros seemed unwilling to admit out loud what they both knew, “it’s not like we can threaten to burn the city down to make them work together.”

“Hm,” said Maedhros, but he said no more.

-

“They both hate that we’re friends,” Maedhros said. The wine had touched his frost-fair features with faint warmth, but Fingon still wanted to touch the sad corner of his mouth and stroke it into softness.

“They do,” he said instead, and poured himself another glass.

There was a long silence.

“I’ve thought about it,” said Maedhros.

“About what?”

“About ending our friendship. It causes – unnecessary friction. We don’t need that right now.”

“ _Maedhros_ ,” said Fingon, stiffening. “Do you truly think – do you _truly_ think the unease between the son of Miriel and the son of Indis will be eased by a breach between the two of _us?_ At times it seems to me as though your father’s love for Grandpa Finwë and the friendship between you and I is all that keeps Formenos linked to Tirion; all that stops your father from severing the links between here and there entirely!”

“I wouldn’t,” Maedhros said. “Fingon, I _wouldn’t._ Don’t look at me like that. Even if I could bear to take that step myself, I would never cause you such pain.”

“See that you don’t!” Fingon said, and sat back. “I wouldn’t let you, anyway. I’d sneak into your rooms at the palace and refuse to leave; I’d ride to Formenos and play the harp outside your window, and sing at you _very_ badly.”

“Death and torture, rather!”

-

“They do really hate that we’re friends,” said Fingon a while later.

“Yes,” Maedhros. “We’ve already thought about that.”

“No, I don’t mean we should stop being friends,” Fingon said. “I think – if we can’t bring them together through what they both _love –_ why not through what they both hate?”

“They think we might influence each other in the wrong direction,” Maedhros said. “It’s part of their feud. We can’t bring them together through their _feud_.”

“We could be even _more_ friends. We could be friends _at them._ ’

“We should stop drinking, I think.”

-

“We could say we were _more than friends_ ,” said Fingon, and Maedhros blinked at him, wide grey eyes as full of Telperion’s silver light, as though they had gathered it in and held it there.

“What?”

“What if we said we were _in love_? What if we got betrothed?”

“Fingon!”

“Betrothals are broken all the time!” said Fingon. “Think how angry they’d _both_ be, and then – how relieved!”

“It would only make things worse."

“I could _kiss your hands_ in front of your _father_ ,” said Fingon, dreamy at the thought of making Fëanor’s marble face match the red of his silk robes.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I _would_.”

“Well,” said Maedhros, a little wistfully, “I don’t suppose anything could _really_ make things worse?”

-

“We’re getting married,” Fingon said, and took Maedhros’s hand.

“Betrothed,” Maedhros said. “We’re betrothed.”

There was a long, appalled silence.

Then:

“You’re _what_ ,” said Fingolfin.

Turgon looked disgusted, but not surprised. “I,” he said pompously, “am disgusted, but not surprised.”

Aredhel, Aegnor, Artanis, Orodreth and Finrod made incredulous mutual eye contact with their Fëanorian cousins, and then all of them tried to pretend that it hadn’t happened.

Grandpa Finwë looked like the weight of his crown was giving him a headache, which was usual, and like he was afraid someone was going to throw something, which was also usual, and like he had a tremulous hope for a family united by marriage rather than divided by it, which was new.

Fëanor said nothing at all.

“I suppose we all feared this day would come,” said Turgon, still sounding like a tragic orator.

“Alas,” sighed Maglor.

“I thought it was such a _wholesome friendship,_ ” said Finarfin sadly. “So _refreshing_.”

Anairë said, “Fingon, you know there are cousins on my side of the family too, don’t you? They’re all very nice.”

Fingolfin said again, “You’re _what_?”

“We have plighted troth!” said Maedhros. He was so often the one to soften things that hearing him deliberately court trouble filled Fingon with delight. “We have sworn ourselves to each other under the stars of Varda and in the name of Eru Iluvatar! We have exchanged rings!”

“We should discuss the betrothal gifts,” Fingon said, and give his parents his best, most charming smile. “I mean, I don’t think we’re _expecting_ anything –” He glanced at Fëanor, who was still ominously silent. “Certainly I’m not! But it would be very _nice_ if we had something to give Maedhros as my affianced – to welcome him to our side of the family.”

There was a sharp sound. The large diamond on the clasp of Fëanor’s cloak cracked down the middle, and then the jewels that graced his long fingers also split and burst as though crazed with heat, their crystal hearts tearing themselves open. Then Fëanor, greatest of the princes of the Noldor, said, in calm metallic tones that sounded nothing like his own at all, “Nerdanel and I will present Fingon Fingolfinwion with a suitably large and ingenious betrothal gift worthy of the spouse of our eldest child, the eldest grandchild of Finwë. To welcome him to _our_ side of the family.”

“What?” said Fingolfin.

“Such would we do for whomever it was that Nelyafinwë wished to wed,” said Fëanor, still eerily calm.

“ _What_ ,” said Fingolfin.

“Naturally we will stand beside our son in the wedding ceremony a year hence,” said Fëanor, and his gaze briefly shifted so that his hot-cold grey eyes seemed to scorch the flesh from Fingon’s face. “To express our – delight at our son’s marriage.”

“You – you _support_ this?” Fingolfin said. “This – _this_ –”

It was usually Fëanor who ranted, who curled his fists and asked furious questions of his half-brother, his father, the sky, Iluvatar itself: and it was usually Fingolfin who became more and more impassive in the face of his half-brother’s ire, only more stony. Nothing enraged Fëanor more. Now Fëanor was calm – dangerously so – and Fingolfin was spluttering.

“Of course,” said Fëanor, raising one dark eyebrow.

“They’re _cousins_!”

A shrug of the broad red-silk shoulders. “Who can stand against love?”

“You would let your son wed _a grandson of Indis_?”

“Are we not all cuttings from the same great tree?” asked Fëanor. It was Fingolfin’s usual line, and despite the cracked rings on Fëanor's fingers, the strange hectic flush on his face and the manic gleam in his eyes, there was a tilt to his mouth that suggested he was beginning to enjoy himself; that he had at last discovered how to visibly get under Fingolfin's skin. “Such prejudice would be a terribly sad thing to take noxious root in a loving family.”

 _“You –!_ ” said Fingolfin, and made a strange gurgling noise.

“Me!” said Fëanor, and smirked outright.

Fingolfin visibly strangled his outrage and threw back his own shoulders. “Maedhros,” he said. “Naturally, Anairë and I are equally delighted to welcome you as the spouse of our own eldest son, and we too will stand with you at your wedding.”

Fëanor crossed his arms. “Nerdanel and I will hold the ceremony.”

“Ah, but you’ve already held Maglor’s wedding, and so recently! Allow _us_ , my dear brother,” said Fingolfin, and the friendly words came out through clenched teeth.

“What a happy, happy day this is,” said Finwë. There were tears of delight standing in his eyes. “Oh, my sons: you must allow _me_ to host this fine occasion.”

Fëanor said, “Why even wait the customary year?”

“My thoughts _exactly_ ,” said Fingolfin, snarling. “Why stand for a moment in the way of true love?”

-

“This is a disaster,” Fingon said, standing before the mirror and staring at himself in despair. Every possible silken inch of his long blue robes was embroidered with gold and silver thread, bristling with pearls and crystal. There were more worked Fingolfinion devices on his left sleeve alone than he had ever worn in his life. His wedding garb screamed _House of Fingolfin_ as surely as if his father had stamped it on his forehead. Indeed, the circlet designed to fit closely around his brow was inset with his father’s banner worked in tanzanites and gold around a large, pale, star-sapphire.

Maehros had said, “They won’t actually let us go through with it.”

Fingon had agreed that of course they wouldn’t.

Maedhros had said, “They’re trying to see which of them buckles first. Neither of them want to back down, but they surely can’t stand the strain of pretending to support this and each other long.”

Fingon had agreed that surely one of them would break in the face of the other’s provocation, any moment now.

Yet Tirion had given itself over to the manufacture of ostentatious betrothal gifts as swiftly as it had given itself over to the secret artificing of swords. One day Fëanor had presented Fingon – surely his least-favourite half-nephew? There was always Turgon, but Turgon, at least, had never drawn near to a son of Fëanor – with a fabulous and vaguely threatening gift. The jewel was the size of a balled fist, or a torn-out heart, and ruby-red, and pulsed with its own inner light. It was blood-warm to the touch.

“Since I know you have such a fondness for red,” smiled Fëanor, with a knowingness that had made Fingon cringe.

Fingolfin had responded with a beautiful scroll-case made of fine wood, ivory, and hammered gold, exquisitely tailored to Maedhros’s own taste and scholarly habits. The chased engraving was very lovely, and decidedly Vanyarin. “There’s something to be said for the harmonious blend of our lines,” he had said, when presenting it, “and I have always so admired your care, and your skill, and your devotion to your work.”

“Oh,” Maedhros had said, touched to the core by the unstinted praise, and had not been able to hide it in time.

Fëanor’s eyes had narrowed, and the gifts had only escalated in ostentatiousness and provocation from there.

-

“Maedhros,” Fingon had said. “What if they don’t back down?”

“Do you think your father and mine will allow us to bind our lives and souls until the End of the Music?”

Surely not - not even to drive the other to despair! His father might allow it, thinking Fingon wished it; but Feanor had always hoarded his sons like his strange glowing jewels, and he would surely burst himself before he let Maedhros bind his fëa to that of Indis’s grand-son. “No. But – you don’t think _we_ should stop it ourselves?”

“Perhaps we should,” Maedhros had said, and gave a melancholy sigh. “And yet – how peaceful things are!”

That had not been quite the word for it. Tirion hummed with energy like a hive, as surely as it had before, but it was a bee-hive now, bent on industry, not a wasp’s nest of foment and poison. Forges glowed; quarries were driven deep through the earth; trade blossomed. The wedding Finwë was planning had touched every aspect of the Noldorin economy, it seemed, and curled long fingers out towards the Teler and the Vanyar, calling its skilled craftspeople and great artists and musicians hither. It was not only to be a festival that would unite the warring House of Finwë, but a _state occasion_ that would bring Fingon’s great-uncle Ingwë down from Taniquetil, and his aunt Findis, and his cousin-uncle Ingwion. It would bring King Olwë and his Queen from Alqualondë, and all Earwen’s silvery siblings and relations. It was even rumoured that King Finwë had invited Manwë and Varda themselves.

“They won’t come,” Maedhros had said.

“No,” Fingon said. “But – he also asked Aulë, and Oromë, and they might. We cannot lie to the Valar - can we?”

-

Trying to outdress and out-dazzle the grandson of Miriel Serindë the seamstress and the son of Fëanor the master smith on his wedding day was fruitless, but Fingon hadn’t been able to persuade his father of that.

“At least,” his mother said, “we will be able to hold our own heads up.” She touched Fingon’s cheek with her cool white fingers like he was still a boy, and sighed. “I want you to be happy, Finno, but I do _wish_ I’d sent you to spend more time with your maternal family when you were growing up.”

Fëanor was usually worse at strategy than Fingolfin was. Fingolfin thought of the long-term, while Fëanor courted the moment, the transient and always-escaping present. Yet on the day appointed for the wedding, it became clear that Fëanor had out-maneouvred his half-brother, for Maedhros stood in the great green mead before the Ezellohar with his long red hair brushed out to his waist in a lick of flame, dressed in pure white with his brow graced with brightness.

The light came from the three brilliant stones that were Fëanor’s favourite jewels, the Silmarils themselves; which, when Fëanor was not wearing them himself and using them to light-blind people he didn’t like (Fingolfin) at court and in meetings, lived in a locked metal box jealously concealed from all. He looked terribly simple and utterly peerless, Maedhros the Well-Made; as beautiful as a Vala, his high cheekbones and perfect facial bones glossed with holy light and his lovely mouth bending in humour at the sight of Fingon coming towards him, barely able to move under the great weight of his stiff formal robes.

“Don’t you _dare_ laugh,” Fingon said, because that was easier than saying anything else.

“I wouldn’t,” Maedhros said, but his eyes laughed for him.

There were so many people here, from Tirion, from Alqualondë, from Valimar and Taniquetil. Tall willowy Vanyar with skin like cream and hair like sunshine, wearing exquisitely pleated linen. Slim silver-haired Teleri in filmy gauze robes and silk embroidered with pearls. Dark-haired, keen-eyed Noldor, dressed in as much metal and gemwork as their frames could support, their hands empty of swords. Glinting, ethereal spirits of air and fire, water and earth: Maiar in Eldarin skin, or some approximation of it, or their own less than corporeal forms.

Angrod was back, and wearing a strange tall headdress made of swan feathers.

“Do you think they’ll stop the wedding before the ceremony begins, or mid-way?” asked Fingon.

“Before, if it’s your father that yields first,” said Maedhros. “If it’s mine – mid-way.”

“He does love a good scene.”

“Well,” said Maedhros, and heaved a great sigh. “At least there’ll be plenty of wine.”

“I’m going to sit in your lap and drink it _all_ ,” Fingon said, “before _and_ after,” because, while the marriage obviously was going to be called off at the opportune moment, he didn’t quite see why he should give up any of the benefits he’d acquired over the past few weeks of their charade. He _liked_ Maedhros’s hand resting at the small of his back, and being able to touch Maedhros’s face when he wished to, and letting Maedhros feed him from his plate. The way it made both their fathers glare at each other and then compete to be more supportive of their union was the _point_ of it all, but not the only pleasure. (It also made Turgon look quite unwell).

“Finno,” Maedhros said, and his voice seemed strained. He took Fingon’s hand. “Do you think that – well –”

“ _There_ you are,” said Indis the Queen. “Your grandfather’s been looking everywhere for you! Lord Aulë and Lady Yavanna have come to bless your union. Come along! You can hold hands and stare at each other _after_ you’ve been polite and greeted your Holy guests.”

-

The feast was long, and the tables heaped with jewel-bright fruits, with glazed pastries, with cream and honey; with oysters and bright raw fish in pinks and oranges and whites and silver-blues; with white capons and pink-purple venison. There was a great deal of wine, and honey-mead, and a strange colourless Telerin liquor that tasted like metal-cleaner but went very well mixed with sugar-water, and Fingon sat beside Maedhros and touched his face, and his shoulder, and his thigh, and his ear, and curled strands of his long red hair around his own tan fingers, and let Maedhros feed him the choicest bits from his plate.

“I will miss this very badly,” Maedhros said, as Fingon opened his mouth to let him place a berry on his tongue. Fingon’s mouth was full for a moment, and when he swallowed, Maedhros added, before he could speak, “—how happy everyone is. The joy. The end of fighting.”

At the end of the banquet, there was a long silence, as tables were cleared of food and glasses refilled; and then everyone’s eyes turned to them. “Well,” Fingon said, and got to his feet.

Maedhros rose too, and gave him a somewhat laboured smile. It hurt Fingon a little. Hadn’t this all been to ease the strain from that dearly-loved face? And yet the strain was understandable. This was the moment that had nearly broken through their respective fathers’ furious competition, because protocol said that the mother of the bride and the father of the groom would join the hands of the pair for their wedding vows.

(“Nelyafinwë is the elder of the two,” Fëanor had said, “and it will be _my pleasure_ to take his hand and give it to his – _spouse_.”

“Fingon is _my eldest son_ ,” Fingolfin had said, “and so _I_ will be setting his hand in your son’s. Nerdanel can guide the other; for you have no daughters, and when else can you do your wife such honor? Allow her this role, this once.”

“Perhaps Indis and I should join the twain instead,” Finwë had suggested, ever peace-maker, only for both sons to turn and snarl _“No,”_ at him through their fixed smiles.)

Someone was going to break this up at any moment.

Yet Fëanor and Nerdanel came to Maedhros’s side, and Fingolfin and Anairë to Fingon’s. The compromise was that each set of parents would guide their son's hand, and it turned a graceful ceremony into a logistical squash as Fingon allowed his parents to turn his hand over and hold it out to Maedhros; and as Maedhros’s fearsome father and quiet, passionate mother took Maedhros’s hand and set it in his.

They’d clasped hands many times, but in this moment, with so many staring, it had a different weight to it. Their parents were holding their two hands together, which was frankly strange and _uncomfortable. Fingon’s hand started to sweat a little, and yet he stroked Maedhros’s palm with the side of his thumb and tried to smile at him. It was almost over._

__

But instead of snatching his hand away and declaring that the thing could not continue, Fingolfin blessed their union in the name of Varda, and clenched his jaw at Fëanor in a very _so there!_ kind of way.

__

It was Fëanor’s turn to do the same, calling on Manwë, and for a moment he said nothing at all. A vein was pulsing in his temple. Any moment now, he was going to snap.

__

Then,

__

“In the name of Manwë,” Fëanor said ungraciously, “hear this father’s prayer and bless this union, from now until the end of the Music. And may they be happy!” he added, and jerked his chin at Fingolfin, as if to say _beat that!_

__

Fingolfin opened his mouth as though he was going to add on to his blessing, and then Maedhros pulled his hand away from Fingon's and began to remove his betrothal ring.

__

Fingon fumbled at his own. The silver ring on his forefinger had begun to feel like it belonged there, and he would miss it. In the ordinary way of things, when marriage vows _were_ sworn, he would lose it anyway; but its absence would be made up for with a ring of gold. When betrothals were broken off, the silver rings were removed in public and then melted down. They had a crowd gathered, at least; and among the great throng of Noldor, at least _one_ had probably brought equipment sufficient to melt silver on the spot.

__

Neither of their fathers had intervened, and the Valar were watching complacently, not hurling golden spears or brilliant bolts of light. It was going to have to be up to them; Fingon was going to have to take off his ring and forbear to exchange it for a golden one.

__

He didn’t want to take it off.

__

“Finno?” Maedhros asked. He was frowning. He had to be able to see the great storm in Fingon's mind on his features, and his reluctance; and though Fingon still didn't want to do it, he couldn't let Maedhros bind himself to him in service of a mad plan for want of a little courage.

__

“Ugh, fine,” Fingon said gracelessly, and jerked the ring off. 

__

“ _Finno_ ,” Maedhros said, and opened his other hand to show him a golden ring, offering it like a question.

__

Fingon stared.

__

Maedhros gave him his strained smile, and his grey eyes were terribly anxious. 

__

“You are a _terrible_ over-planner,” Fingon said. Maedhros would know what he meant. Surprised joy was rising in him like a tide of gold, like baking bread, like metal turning to vapour under the strongest of heats, and he laughed out loud. “What on earth were you going to do if I said no and re-started the civil war in front of Lady Yavanna and everyone?”

__

He was still laughing as he drew forth the golden ring he'd secreted among all his over-embroidered garb, just _in case_.

__

“So are you!” said Maedhros, looking at it; and then he lifted his eyes to Fingon's, and the same joy was in them, brighter and more pure than the Silmarils above them.

__

-

__

The gifts pressed on either half of the married couple by their parents were even worse than the betrothal gifts had been. Worse still, as the banquet continued on, long into the silver hours of Telperion, Fëanor drew Lady Yavanna to his side and began to sketch out on the table-cloth a complicated series of calculations that would might allow for the creation of grand-children from this union; Fingolfin got very drunk, and cried when Finwë embraced him and told him he was proud; and Angrod and Caranthir came to blows that were only ended when Angrod bent his head and butted his cousin in this stomach with the stiff, sharpened feathers of the swan-coronet. Everyone else danced under the stars until Laurelin came once more into bloom.

__


End file.
